


Love & Other Fallacies

by SpookyTsubaki, TheArtOfSuicide



Category: Beetlejuice (1988), Beetlejuice (Cartoon 1989), Beetlejuice - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, Roleplay Logs, dubcon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:08:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28307289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpookyTsubaki/pseuds/SpookyTsubaki, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheArtOfSuicide/pseuds/TheArtOfSuicide
Summary: "C'mon, Lyds," he purred the familiar nickname as if he had any right, looking right into her soul as he did so. Heknewher. "Ya didn't really think I was gonna let that sonuvabitchkissyou, huh?"
Relationships: Beetlejuice/Lydia Deetz
Comments: 5
Kudos: 45





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's Note:** What follows is a roleplay between SpookyTsubaki and myself, TheArtOfSuicide. She is playing as Lydia and I am playing Betelgeuse. Because of the nature of roleplay, the point of view changes often and you will see each event as it was perceived by our renditions of these characters. It's being posted here so that we can have a comprehensive archive to look back on and reread easily rather than having to dig through messages and docs. Be warned going forward that this story may never have a clean or concise ending as that is not the point of roleplay.
> 
> All this being said, please do enjoy.

Lydia Deetz was a gentle girl… if a bit strange. With a pale, ghostly complexion, silky raven hair that cascaded down her back, and such delicate features, as if she were a painted porcelain doll. She was the only child her father sired before her mother passed… making _her_ the only heir.

It was frowned upon obviously; an unmarried young girl whose mother had left so long ago, and whose father was gone most of the time on business affairs‒ "a recipe for disaster" most said. After all, who could trust a girl like that? She couldn't deny the fact she was odd, always seeming to have her head off in the clouds, or lurking till dusk at the local cemeteries and churches, clad only in soft black cotton dresses, looking as if she were part of the cemetery itself, haunting and guarding it against any unwanted visitors.

This made her viable to the teasing from the other young girls down in the town, which never truly seemed to cease, even when she avoided them at all costs. Just as she was beginning to welcome the idea of being some unmarried spinster whose only company was the idea that somebody was there, waiting for her at the burial ground‒ her father returned from his affairs with news that would change everything.

She was to be entered into an arranged marriage.

She _couldn't_ be. She wanted to fight it. To scream, and shout, and vow she would _never_ be forced into something like that. But it was inevitable either way. She wouldn't be able to run away, after all. Father said he _needed_ the money from the dowry, and an heir to his name, and she needed a husband. Someone to make her respectable and keep her off the streets.

Lydia thought that was certainly a leap but she couldn't deny that the only man who ever cared for her was getting older. Even if she didn't want to marry a mystery man, she would if it meant keeping her father safe and cared for.

These thoughts plagued her as she sat on the way to this presumptuously wealthy man's house. She knew nearly nothing about him, finding the whole thing quite shady even if most of the girls her age had done this already. The ride was bumpy, and she soon was welcomed out to be greeted by a nice manor… intimidating nonetheless.

She prayed for a way out...

* * *

Lord Magnus Bell was always considered an odd fellow.

Being of a vastly distant relation to the King of England earned him status enough and birthrights to live in this modest, out-of-the-way manor. It stood resolute and gloom in the middle of the forest with an entire sea separating it from the house of parliament. He never married. Old Magnus never went looking, even when he was young and fit to sire, and no fathers ever offered up their daughters, not even the extremely poor and ugly ones.

Therefore, it came as a shock to his staff of many decades when Lord Magnus Bell awoke one morning at the age of eighty-two, shouted at the top of his lungs to get the attention of his head servant. and informed the befuddled man that he was to pen a letter at once complete with the down payment of a dowry to be sent to one Charles Deetz in a small German town two days out by horse.

The second half of the dowry would be paid upon Lord Magnus's marriage to his daughter.

_Lydia Deetz? Who had ever heard of Lydia Deetz?_

The servants whispered amongst themselves for days, thoroughly thrown for a loop by the master's newest antics. He now stayed up long hours into the night where he previously spent most of his time asleep or reading. Sickly and thin, with bones that cracked when he moved, it was an unfortunate servant to stumble upon his frightly figure hunched over tables in the library, reading by moonlight, or gazing at himself in the expensive looking glass above the fireplace‒ stretching and picking and peeling at his own leathery wrinkled face as if he thought there might be something better underneath if he just looked hard enough.

All five of the small staff were pressed discretely against the windows at the front of the manor now, watching with unfiltered curiosity at the _strange_ little thing stepping down from such a shabby carriage. Certainly far too young for their Master but not uncommon for a man of his means. Nevertheless, this was an out of character decision for him and they were all of them still trying to wrap their heads around it.

The head servant, a young man around the same age as the future Lady of the manor and would have made a much more sensible pair for her, was waiting at the front gate to receive her.

"My Lady," he offered her an arm as she stepped down from the carriage, revealing his highborn lineage in the way he didn't slur the two words together. "It's... _wonderful_ to meet you."

He looked downright sick to say so but passed off the bag of coin he held to the carriage driver with a murmured _"for Master Deetz"_ before leading the lady off down the walkway to the front doors, wearing a stiff frown all the while.

"Vincent Malloy the third, at your service, Miss, and _this_ ," he swept an arm open to present the house to her as they stepped through the heavy swinging front doors together, "is Bell Manor. Your new home."

* * *

Lydia kept her eyes averted after seeing the group of servants by the window, undisguised curiosity apparent on all their faces as if to say: " _What's a girl like her doing in a place like this?"_

The truth was, she didn't know. She didn't know the logistics behind this, or even why this man of such high status would want _her‒_ some dormouse of a girl who spent her days alone or waiting in the church yard as if to be bound to it.

She looked up when she heard a young man's voice, big brown eyes curious as he spoke, wondering what he had to say with hope it help her navigate the new life she was expected to settle into. Her arm looped through his, finding his grace and air a nice change from the men she was used to from her little village‒ most of them being downright slobs.

He was sickly looking, to say the least; translucent pale skin, deep brown hair combed neatly over his forehead, looking like her own male counterpart. She found some bit of it endearing, how couldn't she? He was the first person to actually speak to her here, and he seemed kind enough.

"Likewise, Sir."

Lydia made certain she kept her manners and maintained her family's dignity in the face of meeting her husband-to-be, as well as his servants. They walked along the small path up to the house, decorated with soft pink roses, the thorns nearly scraping her soft, ungloved hands as she walked. When they entered, she was taken aback by the ornate detail on… everything. The way the banister had such delicate carvings of flowers, curling up all the way towards the top of the staircase, where she hoped to find this mystery fiance.

Alas, as her eyes wandered, she was soon called back to the moment as her escort introduced himself.

"A pleasure to meet you Mr. Malloy, I'm Lydia Deetz. Thank you for showing me around, it's so grand," she added, despite her heart racing with excitement and nervousness as she continued to glance around at the ornate home.

She got a bit of a tour, seeing where everything was on the first floor at least. Yet, all the while her mind was off elsewhere; she felt some presence around her, something that sent shivers up and down her spine. Maybe she was being silly… she did just move in and had yet to meet her fiance. Any number of things could unsettle a girl like her.

But of course, she would be sure to keep a close eye on things. That's how she came to ask the question that had been hammering in her head.

"Pardon me, Mr. Malloy, but..do you possibly know what could be keeping Lord Bell? I've yet to know much about him and I am quite curious."

She was starting to wonder if she would ever see this enigma of a person.

* * *

Vincent felt nothing but pity for the young Miss. She was very pretty. He assumed her father had her delivered dressed in what must have been their finest gown, a raiment of forest green silk‒ discoloration at the overly long hem showing its age. A wool cape of black was her ill-suited covering to protect from the cold, dirt staining the edges, little holes worn through the thin fabric.

Fortunate that she was a wealthy woman now. Still, Vincent pitied her. No amount of money or earthly possessions could ever persuade him to spend an entire night alone in a room unaccompanied with Lord Bell.

With graciousness and propriety befitting his station, the head servant showed her from room to room, foregoing the Master's wing, and ending in her own quarters. While he had taken her on the expansive tour of the manor, another servant‒ a tall, pretty blonde woman called "Ginger"‒ took her meager belongings to the room they found themselves in now.

The girl brought almost nothing with her. The clothes on her back and a single suitcase, likely filled with more tattered rags Vincent would sooner have Jacque burn for kindling than see on her back again. Not when the Master had a mountain of riches to spend, just gathering dust. When she asked after the elusive man, Vincent's frown deepened discernibly.

Of what little he had seen of her, she was polite and quiet, both qualities Vincent admired in a person‒ even more in a woman. Yes, he pitied her indeed.

"Lord Bell is…" _Ancient_. "... resting. He tends to be most active at night. Rest assured, he will make it a point to meet you when he sees fit. I do apologize for the delay."

Eager to change the subject as he did not have a good enough answer for the girl, one that didn't make him feel ill, he made sure to offer her amenities before taking his leave. Small mercies, cushions to soften the blow and little else.

"From now on, Ginger here will be assisting you in readying for the day and night. She will be by later to draw you a bath and take your measurements. The Master has seen to it that you be provided with an entirely new wardrobe to fit your becoming station. For now, whatever you have and what is in the closet will have to do. Would you like me to send for Jacques to prepare something to your taste? Tea? A meal? I understand your journey was a long one."

Two days in a carriage wasn't _terrible_ … but the carriage her father sent her in looked in danger of falling to pieces if it turned on too bumpy a road. Just then, Vincent felt guilty for rushing her to a tour and not allowing her an opportunity to rest first. Skittish thing, scared and alone in a new place. _And cold_. He sniffed distastefully, certain he'd ordered for the fireplace to be loaded.

"I'll have Ginger start a fire at once."

* * *

The young woman finally found herself in her new room, the whole space just as opulent as the rest of the house‒ at least in her eyes. She tried to not stray far from Vincent until he decided he would give her a chance to settle in.

"Tea would be wonderful, thank you." She requested, truly grateful for the man's hospitality; seeing as he never let something go unnoticed in the mere hours or so that she had been there. Hence why as soon as she felt another involuntary shiver, he was quick to ensure a fire would be made.

Giving him a grateful smile, he soon left her alone for a few moments. She took a deep breath. _She really didn't belong here. Why would this closed-off man want her? This had to be a farce. She couldn't believe it was true until she heard it from him._

But she would soon enough… hopefully.

A moment was taken to straighten out her clothing, figuring it would be best to hang her clothes up and out of the old leather suitcase. She got to work on that, a feeling of inferiority returning as she integrated the few meager items she had brought into this den of wealth. When that short task was done, she sat on the bed practically noiselessly and rummaged through the rest of her suitcase to remind herself of what few trinkets and keepsakes she had brought along, for fear of missing her father or their house. Granted, it wasn't much, but it was hers.

In her suitcase remained a few books, a locket that held nothing yet but was supposedly her mother's, and a deck of tarot‒ mother's as well.

While Lydia didn't remember all that much about the woman, being so young when she passed, she did remember little aspects‒ or maybe her father did; long dark curls, much like her own that never could seem to tamed, or the scent of smoke and wildflowers that enveloped her. Lydia couldn't ever be sure whether they were her own memories or just stories her father told her to get her to stop questioning him.

One thing, however, that she remembered clear as day was the way she and mother would sit by the fire on occasion, tracing over the wonderfully detailed cards, mother whispering their hidden meanings to her as if to hope she would remember them one day. She remembered a few. Not enough. Nevertheless, over time she trained her eyes to look for the secrets hidden in the illustrations, hoping that she was doing it right, desperate for some sort of guidance in her already bafflingly short existence on this earth.

Finding this passed the time most days, she drew a card from her deck, once again grateful for her time alone that granted her the moment to do this. When she did so, she found herself face to face with a card titled: _The Fool_.

 _Nothing good could come of that,_ she reasoned seeing as she already felt blindsided by such a fast proposal. Was she being deceived? Just as she was about to question more, she heard a soft rapping at the door, she stuffed her cards in the bedside table before going to open the door, wondering if it was her tea.

* * *

"Hello, dearie!"

"Bonjour mademoiselle!"

It was Ginger, the maid and Lydia's assigned Lady in waiting. Usually, the positions were mutually exclusive but Lord Magnus apparently had not seen a need to call for some highborn noblewoman to come be a trick pony for his young fiancee. Ginger served the manor for many years and she would do just fine.

The fewer people in the house, the better.

Along with Ginger came the chef, a tall, well-built Frenchman named Jacques. A tea tray was balanced on one of his flat palms, a plate of finger foods on the other; bread, cheese, fruit. Their auras were bright and colorful, as opposed to Vincent's dour, if polite, mannerisms and low energy.

"I see you when you come through zee kitchen, but we did not get to say 'ello', so I 'ave come to deliver your lunch personally."

Not daring to pass the threshold into her room, he bowed deeply once, presenting the trays which Ginger quickly took off his hands and, having no similar reservations, carried right past Lydia into the room without need of invitation.

"My name eez Jacques. I am zee chez du Bell Manor, master of zee French cuisine, educated in Versailles under zee best tutors. I am at your beck and call for any meal you can imagine whenever you hunger, mademoiselle." He stood from his bow, taller than ever and committed to his duty. "Day and night, Jacques will be here."

"She gets it," Ginger giggled, bumping the stiff in his hip in a way that denoted a familiar and cozy relationship between the two. "Now _get_. Poor thing isn't used to bein' fawned over, are ya, sweetie?"

The maid knew another poor girl when she saw one. She herself spent much of her life serving houses like this one‒ and Ginger would never go back to a house that _wasn't_ this one. Not while Lord Bell was still alive and kicking but who knew how long that would last? This was an easy gig. If she could spark up a friendship with this girl, it would be even easier. It had been so long since she had another woman to keep company with. Maybe if they hit it off well enough, the Lady would want to keep her around whenever her decrepit husband bit the dust.

Jacques bid his farewells, and Ginger got right to it starting the fireplace and heating water for Lydia's bath.

"How're you settlin' in, hon?" The blonde woman had an accent that spoke to her background, just as Vincent had one that spoke to his. Lydia was blessed to have a father that at one point lived a life of wealth and could train her tongue to speak eloquently as it did.

"Is there anythin' I can do to make this easier on ya? Can't tell ya how nice it is to have another girl around. These menfolk stink up the air the way they walk around like they're in charge, like I'm not the reason they have clean shoes to walk in _at all_."

Apparently, Ginger was chatty and she had _opinions_. If she feared the whip from her Master for such blatantly disrespectful banter, it didn't show in her cheeky grin and wink at the girl.

* * *

Lydia opened the door to be greeted by warm, colorful figures. Talking a mile a minute, she could barely welcome the woman of tall stature‒ who went by the name 'Ginger', into her room as the frenchman explained his presence. They were both awfully sweet, clearly excited to have someone new around, which made her wonder all the more how much company came by generally.

She didn't have time to ponder over it as Jaques continued his spiel and Ginger set up, before going back to join the banter. When the blonde mentioned her clearly bewildered state, her cheeks went ashen with embarrassment; it was true, her mother had been the only person she ever felt that remote closeness to, but even that didn't last long. It was clear Ginger had some knowledge of that.

But she was sweet, so after thanking Jaques for such a delectable looking first meal and a marvelous introduction, she turned to enjoy Ginger's company.

"The place is so wonderful, I keep wondering if I'm dreaming," she giggled nervously, unsure of where exactly to place herself as the woman continued to chat and start a fire as well as a bath for her, moving every which way and about. Never having had the luxury of a lady in waiting, or much of anything that could compare to one for that matter, Lydia was always the one to run her own baths or start the fire, but now she stood, tea in hand as Ginger spoke about anything and everything, clearly having an opinion on it all.

"Everything is perfect, thank you. It's certainly nice to know that I'll have another girl to talk with."

Her lips held a slight grin as they giggled amongst themselves. It was true, having her around was a nice shift in the ambience, from cold and imposing to warm and less intimidating. However, that curiosity and feeling of being watched never fully seemed to cease. She felt a strong presence that made her curious, yearning to know so much more about the manor and its owner.

As she was stripped from her day clothes, she decided to try her hand at asking about her soon-to-be-husband again, figuring that Ginger would have more details to spill. Undoing her hair, she twisted it out of the updo it had been strangled into. She ran a few fingers through the wavy black mess of locks before checking for any extra pins she might have missed when she had taken it down.

"Say, you wouldn't happen to know much about Lord Bell..would you? I'd love to at least know a bit about the man I'm to be wed to." She questioned, listening as the maid took this invitation to talk about all she knew.

* * *

At the question, Ginger's lips shut tight and she took a break from uncoiling her lady's hair to scurry back and look out into the hall‒ right, then left. All clear. No eavesdroppers.

"You," Ginger declared importantly in a hushed voice upon her return, then began unworking the laces on the back of her dressing gown. "... are a _very_ lucky woman."

This was the exact opposite sentiment Vincent had given the girl.

"Lord Bell is _eighty-two_ years old." Ginger divulged this information as if telling her the exact weight of all the gold in the family vault. "He sleeps twenty hours of the day and he prefers to lurk in the dark… which means you won't have to see his face on your wedding night."

In the maid's esteemed opinion, this was all excellent news she was giving the young Miss.

"Show him a good enough time and who knows? He'll probably have a coronary n' y'won't have to roll 'round with him more than the once. What I wouldn'ta given for some old rich bastard to steal me off n' wed n' bed me when I was your age..." She sighed dreamily here, gaze far off and long ago in another world before snapping back to reality and sparing the girl a hard look.

"Woulda saved me from havin' to do a lot o' things a young lady ought not be doin' to survive."

After taking down her hair, Ginger urged the shorter girl toward the adjourning bathroom and a clawfoot tub filled with heated water anointed with scented oils and tea leaves to soften her hair and skin.

"The Master is _smitten_ with you, I can say that much confidently." As Lydia sunk into the water, Ginger set a slew of jars at the lip of the tub, pointing them out one by one; sugar and salt scrubs, expensive exotic creams, a type of soap that would lather and clean her hair better than it had ever been in her life.

"He's usually a bit of a cheapskate. Must like you a lot to send out for these kinds of expenses. Look, this one came from _India!"_ She fawned over a dark glass bottle filled with a heady-scented oil before working a few drops of it onto the girl's scalp. "N' just _wait_ 'til ya see your weddin' gown. Alterations'll be made as soon as I have your measurements so that ya can wed tomorrow. Are ya… ya _sure_ you've never met Lord Bell? Even once?"

* * *

As the woman brushed past her to check the hall, Lydia wondered if she had made a mistake asking this person she barely knew about her fiance. Just as she started to apologize, her lady came back, a look of thrill on her face as she spilled secrets, weaving in her own opinions audaciously as she untied the back of the gown.

However, when the maid exclaimed how "lucky" she was, the young girl nearly left her jaw gaped open, all she could stutter out was a simple "I-I am?"

When she elaborated, Lydia was taken aback… _eighty-two?_ That seemed ridiculous. While there were a few girls who got married to someone as old as Lord Bell, she never thought she would end up like that. A part of her was relieved. At least she wouldn't have to fully face him, she could take the information bit by bit and keep a calm and polite exterior‒ even if all the while she was panicking.

The girl listened as Ginger went on wistfully explaining how lucky she was to get picked by such a wealthy old fellow. And she was, she certainly didn't disagree. However, part of her was still wondering _why her?_ She saw the look her new friend wore; a cross between disdain and longing, something she recognized as her own expression for very different reasons. Nevertheless, the two of them snapped out of their own musings as Lydia was ushered to the bathroom.

It was stunning. The arrangement of oils, the decadent bathtub, all of it etched a look of astonishment on the girl's face. She stepped into the bath delicately, genuinely surprised when she heard that the Lord was smitten with her. Again, so confused as to why he would choose a poor girl such as herself to be betrothed to. Those thoughts were shelved as she and Ginger ooggled at the lovely scents, oils, and scrubs Lord Bell provided.

As she relaxed while the treatment was scrubbed into her thick dark hair, a sigh of contentment escaped, the warmth of the bath nearly lulling her to sleep. It was a nice change from the unshakable chill of the manor. However, those big brown eyes popped open when she was reminded the wedding was tomorrow. Needless to say, of course, it all felt rushed. She didn't even know the man!

Though, she was curious to meet him… maybe she just didn't recognize his name. That had to be it. As if reading her thoughts, the taller woman asked about her knowledge of him, to which she shook her head.

"I can't say that I have. I don't know anyone by that name, at least." She shrugged, leaving her curiosities to grow as she bathed.

After nearly an hour in the lap of luxury, she was helped out, feeling soft and as clean as ever. Now soft locks were brushed out and pinned up once again. She was changed into undergarments, lace ties tied tightly around her waist to get the most precise measurements, and helped up on a stool before she was shown the dress.

Her hands went to cover her mouth as she observed the elegant handiwork. The dress was beautiful, to say the very least. The majority of the fabric was a soft cream color; ruffles draping down the center of the bodice all the way to the hem, perfectly sewn bows holding the drapes in place. What really caught her eyes were the fine details embroidered in red. Not enough to imply promiscuity but the splash of color was definitely scandalous.

"Oh my..."

She spoke barely above a whisper, as if afraid speaking too loud would cause the entire gown to unravel.

"It's perfect."

* * *

"Y'know what they say," Ginger giggled and gave the girl a good-natured elbowing. "Wedded in red, better off dead."

The well-meaning morbid joke marked the maid's departure for the evening once she was certain that her new Lady had everything and anything she could need. She seemed like such a nice girl and Ginger had only the highest hopes for her future and happiness there at the manor.

Vincent, though a young man, retired early in the evenings like someone twice his age might. After Ginger and Jacques were finished with a secret romantic tryst in the pantry that they didn't think anyone else knew about, they too went to bed for the night in separate rooms. One by one, all the rest of the servants fell into slumber as well. Then, the house was asleep…

… or was it?

Hours into the dark, while Lydia lay still awake tucked under the comforter, illuminated by the dying embers of the fire, she began to hear things. A door at the end of the hall's rusted hinges could be heard groaning as it was opened, even at that distance. Slowly, an uneven set of footsteps made its way down the hall toward her room.

_Thud… thud… thud…_

They paused before her door then continued on, _thud… thud…_ down the stairs to the bottom floor and nearer the servants' quarters. Then, it was quiet again. _Horribly, awfully quiet_ , not even the crickets singing or wind blowing, the kind of silence that urged one to shout out into the night just to prove they weren't dead yet.

_Thud… thud… thud…_

The footsteps were coming back upstairs. Once more, they stopped in front of Lydia's door. This time, however, they did not retreat. The handle turned. Soundlessly, the door pushed open, proving that the hinges on this one had been oiled recently. In the archway stood a grotesque figure; hunched, skeletal, a jeweled cane gripped tight in his bony grasp. The most upsetting detail about his person, however, had to be his unnaturally gleaming gaze as it roved over his immobile fiancee.

_Thud… thud… thud…_

He was crossing the room, just as heavy-footed and rickety as before. Her eyes were closed, breathing even, but he could practically _smell_ it on her. _Fear._ Grinning nastily, the Lord of the manor pressed a gnarled hand into her bedsheets to brace himself and leaned closer over her, analyzing each delicate feature of her beautiful face.

"Lydia…" His voice was a raspy, ugly thing, but that's not what made it not right. It sounded garbled and wobbly, like two people were trying to talk over one another but they sounded just similar enough for what they were saying to be audible.

"You awake, sweetheart…?"

* * *

After Ginger hemmed the few parts that needed to be tucked in a bit, she left. Once again alone in the big and intimidating house, Lydia got herself into bed, stil trying to process all that had happened that day. She bid adieu to her father what felt like ages ago now, was hastily welcomed to her new home, and had already been fitted for a dress. Everything was moving far too fast.

Yet, she also found a twisted sense of thrill in it all.

She couldn't deny the fact that she was very curious as to who this fellow was. Rumors could only give so much detail but she couldn't worry herself too much about it, or she was sure she would be up all night‒ that wasn't to say that other things going bump in the night wouldn't. Yet as the hours dragged on, she found herself tossing and turning every time she started to drift off, immediately jolting awake from some unknown force.

Perhaps she was paranoid, curling up in the lavish sheets in an attempt to hide her face from whatever could be lurking in the darkened corners. Childish? Undoubtedly. But something about the manor refused to let her drift off, even up until the early hours of the morning when she heard heavy, unbalanced footsteps.

Her eyes shot open, listening as the steps got closer to her room and stopped. She burrowed under the blanket, hoping whoever stopped at her door didn't plan on entering. As luck would have it, nobody did. The thumps and creaks of the floorboards went downstairs, leaving her in the stifling silence.

It felt as if it had engulfed her. The small cracks and pops of the dying fire kept her sane at least but it was quiet, too painfully horribly quiet. She wanted to hear something, _anything_ that signified something else was living in this house. Even the sound of Vincent's mild-mannered voice would have been soothing at this point.

Unfortunately, her wish was granted…

The thumps up the stairs soon stopped at her room once more, this time the apparition opening the door and stalking towards her.

In a panic, she closed her eyes, breath hitching. Despite having yearned to see her fiance's face earlier, she couldn't bring herself to now. She felt his oddly cool hand brace against her bed, nearly travelling to her thigh in the process. As he loomed over her, she wanted to scream, to scramble out of bed, to do anything to get away from him but she stayed as still as she could, quiet as a mouse, refusing to tempt a look at him in case it was something she truly wasn't prepared to see.

Just as she thought that maybe she had imagined he was there, that there was actually nobody, he spoke. A rumble low and choked out, as if two voices were fighting for dominance as he spoke so close to her ear. She didn't dare chance a look now for fear she would find a haggard old man, whose wrinkles twisted him into some nightmarish creature.

She listened as he questioned her once, waiting for a few moments as if she would answer. But she stayed silent. And soon, the old man hobbled out, leaving her to heave a sigh of relief. She refused to open her eyes however, afraid of what she might see if she did. And inevitably, she soon fell asleep.

* * *

Dawn rose and the house arose with it. The energy was tense. It was their Master's wedding day and something chaotic was in the air, something that demanded attention and yet remained stubbornly ignored by all.

Vincent was to oversee the decorations; draping crimson velvet, an abundance of long tapered candles, and roses upon roses upon roses, all in the bloodiest, most passionate shade of red and still bearing their thorns. The arch of the grand staircase framed massive double doors that led to the hearth of the manor where a roaring fireplace taller than the Master's intended wife burned. This is where he wanted his young bride to pledge her eternal devotion to his decrepit being. It made Vincent sick to think about, especially now that he had met the charming thing‒ but it wasn't his place to think and so he didn't.

Jacques didn't have time to think between all the dishes the Master had demanded. The wedding cake was finished and hidden away the day before, but now he had a five-course meal to complete _just_ for Lord Bell and his bride to consume. No guests had been invited, no one from town, no extended family of the Master's, and _certainly_ none of the bride's family. That part of her life was over and done with as far as the Master was concerned.

Ginger hardly had the heart to wake the young Miss from her deep slumber. Miss Lydia probably didn't get much sleep but they had a tight schedule to stick to so that everything would be ready before the priest arrived. Bearing coffee and a spread of fruit and cheese, the kindly maid woke Lydia with gentle nudges.

"Aye, Miss," she beamed, forcing joy though both knew this was not quite a happy occasion. "It's yer weddin' day. Up n' at 'em, ye only get the one!"

Her smile dimmed but didn't go away. Hopefully, this wouldn't be the girl's only wedding. The Master only had so many years left in him, dooming her to eventually be a very young widow indeed. As finally Lydia sat up groggy in bed, Ginger shivered and set about starting a fire.

"A frost must have come in the night. The hall's have a chill about 'em," she commented in passing, stacking logs in the pit. "You drink that up now, dearie. Add cream n' sugar, it'll put some color in those cheeks. It's coffee. From _Persia_ ," she boasted, almost enviously but not quite. Ginger didn't have the capacity for that brand of negativity.

"Told ya the Master was sweet on ya."

* * *

Even though she fancied a good night's rest after that odd encounter, of course, that wouldn't be the case. With the minimal amount of sleep she got, dawn came, and soon she heard the servants shuffling around, which she naively tried to ignore by keeping her eyes closed. Just as she started to get comfortable and found herself drifting off again, Ginger came to wake her. After a few moments of Lydia fighting with herself on whether or not she could avoid the day with sleep, it became clear that she had no option but to get up.

The girl rubbed her eyes, sitting up to see the taller woman's feigned chipper smile. Taking the cup of coffee, she poured a bit of cream in as well as two sugars. Lydia was not used to such a luxury item, only sipping or smelling it a few times in the cold mornings when her mother was around. She supposed she adopted her taste for sweet things from her mother, who would always make the sweetest coffees and teas, all from the small canister she carried.

As the girl reminisced, she took a cautious sip of the coffee, careful not to burn her pale lips before the wedding‒ knowing that sooner or later, she would have to kiss the old fellow who lurked in her bed-chamber last night. Ginger perked up again, telling her the master was clearly infatuated with her, and she entertained a small chuckle, seeing how hard the kind woman was trying to brighten her solemn morning.

They sat there for a few minutes, Lydia eating her charcuterie and Ginger stoking the fire, hoping it would take to the logs soon.

It was clear that neither of them really wanted to leave the little bubble that was her room for the time being, afraid of the wedding antics that would await them as they left those doors.

Soon, things could no longer be put off and they had to start getting her ready. They tried to go slow, Lydia being unusually sluggish as she put on her corset, garters, slips, and petticoats while Ginger tried to prolong what she could in fastening the loops and tying the ties on them very slowly. They pinned up her dark curls once again with few exchanges of words, mostly inquiring about mundane things lest they tread on a more sensitive subject.

At last, it was time. Lydia hardly recognized herself in the mirror, the loose powder which was pressed on making her look pale enough to be a ghost. The only aspect of her appearance convincing her she wasn't dead‒ besides the rouge lip that unintentionally hung in a slight pout‒ was the rapid pounding of her heart.

_She was doing this. She was getting married. To some mysterious old fellow who she barely knew._

She couldn't back out now‒ nor could she ever but now it felt all the more pertinent. She took a deep breath and got up from the ivory stool after being spritzed with some bergamot lavender-infused oils. It was time she to be helped into the decadent dress.

Part of her was nervous. This was such a finessed detail that now she would be stuck no matter what she did. The grand dress was slipped over her tiny frame before she was tied in and faced to look at herself in the full length looking glass. She wasn't herself at all but instead a mix between her mother and some short little heiress. She didn't recognize herself, nor did she seem to have time to as Ginger placed the final touches and got her ready for the biggest day of her life.


	2. Chapter 2

Betelgeuse had been planning this for a long time.

Well, perhaps to Lydia it was a long time. To him, this was a whim, a split-second decision he dove headfirst into like a madman set ablaze and never looked back. Her life was a blink, a perfect crystalline teardrop in an ocean of immortality‒ but not anymore, not by the end of the night should Betelgeuse have his way, and he _always_ had his way.

The first time he saw her, it wasn't her that caught his eye. It was the bronze-skinned, sable-haired goddess of a woman that carried her on her deliciously curved hip. What could the ghoul do but follow the mouthwatering _jiggle_ of her backside as she bounced her little girl and sang a tune from somewhere far away. It was a slow day, and he was going to get bored following her if she didn't get naked soon.

He had never been more sickened to get his wish.

Breathing men had the same thought that he had. Six of them. Coercing a less than responsive dame into a roll in the hay wasn't necessarily below him, but this was ugly. Violent. It didn't please him to have her body revealed and broken, piece by piece. When the first dirty cock penetrated the poor woman with a growl of _"Gypsie whore"_ , Betelgeuse's hand found the little girl's mouth to muffle her screams.

"Shhh…" he calmed in a disembodied voice only she could hear, her little body turned and pressed into his suit by his own doing to shield her from the display. How had he become corporeal so easily? Had his name been uttered?

"Hush, sweetling… Go somewhere else… it'll be over soon…"

He stayed with the little girl all through her mother's rape and after, until her corpse's throat was slit for good measure and all of the miscreant trash had gone on their merry way, none of them seeming to remember or care that their victim had a child unaccounted for. The warm little squirmy thing had long since gone limp and quiet in his arms.

That's when he felt it, something he hadn't experienced since there was blood running through his veins and faith for God in his heart. _Fear_.

Where did she belong? Who could he take her to that wouldn't let harm befall her? His arms tightened. She whimpered and he immediately loosened his grip, knees weak.

_He belonged to her_.

Only once her mother's corpse had gone cold did he knock out of his impromptu possessive stupor and recognize that he _had_ to find a home for her before she woke.

"Gypsie…" He uttered under his breath, a gritty claw brushing dark curls away from her forehead. Her skin was so fair, he never would have guessed this was a Romani babe. Reluctantly, he took her to the closest camp and stayed nearby to wait until someone found her asleep by the fire wrapped in a mysterious black-and-white-striped blanket. They did, and they didn't hurt her.

He should have been satisfied then. He wasn't.

He stayed until she was placed with an old drunkard the mortals called her Grandfather. Betelgeuse didn't like it. He liked it even less when the Grandfather turned her over to another disappointing mortal man dubbed her Father that didn't look happy to see her or interested in drying her shocked mourning tears.

Anger was more familiar to Betelgeuse than fear. He had seen so much _fucked up_ shit. He had seen infants thrown to alligators, rats feasting on necrotic flesh, skeletons hanging from their skin and surviving on their own waste… and yet this. This was the tragedy he couldn't stand by and simply witness.

From that point onward, she was his haunt. Never before had he ever met anyone as badly in need of protection as Lydia Deetz. She _needed_ him. She would never know how badly, everything he had done for her. When she caught the fever at ten that almost killed her, he wrapped her in his energy all through the night until the waves of heat chilled. When the little Brewster bitch pushed her down that tall hill, he pushed Claire down the family well. When Thomas Baker, who beat his first two wives to death and was looking for a third, came to Charles Deetz with a heavy dowry, Lord Magnus Bell came with a heavier one.

Taking care of her was going to be so much simpler now.

He watched her now in his sagging, aching flesh suit, so ready for the charade to be over. She was a vision in lace, her bountiful skirts hiding nervous steps as she came nearer to him down the aisle. The breath he needed for his possession to not keel over dead caught in his throat. The old codger proved he wasn't completely lifeless then, his wrinkled equipment coming to life beneath his wedding robe. Betelgeuse cracked a nasty grin, made even nastier on Lord Bell's withered face.

"Lydia," he garbled in that horrible voice of his, taking her tiny beautiful hand in his gnarled arthritic thing to place a wet kiss on her knuckles. She looked _terrified_. Poor thing. He couldn't help but be amused at his own joke. "You're _beeaautiful_ …"

He could feel spittle bubbling at the corner of his mouth and had to stop himself from cackling at the look on her face. This was almost too mean, even for him. Still, he couldn't help himself. That bony hand traveled up her palm and sleeve to lewdly caress the bare skin on her forearm before giving her a disgusting wink.

"Ready for _tonight?"_

* * *

The young woman prayed for a miracle, for something to stop the wedding that she was promised to. Those silent prayers became all the more fervent when she got a good look at the man in broad daylight, through the door she cracked open, unsure if she should walk down the aisle or not.

To say the least, he looked like an old raisin, all dried up and withering. She couldn't help it when her face grimaced in slight repulsion, yet he caught that. Almost inhumanly, his head snapped to the side to look at her. And even from afar, she could see through those deep brown eyes that he leered at her, nearly unrobing her in the process. She gave an awkward and shy wave of greeting, knowing she didn't have much to justify her ogling. She was quick to shut the door, pressing her back against the wall and shutting her lids, lashes heavy with something that felt like shoe polish. She clasped her hands together, as she found she always did in a time of need. Barely above a whisper, she spoke;

"Mama...please give me guidance as I enter a new journey in my life. Help me stay safe, and aid me in my time of need."

While she knew it was silly to pray to a woman who she only had a few memories of, it helped. In some ways, she liked to think her mama was watching out for her… wherever she was. When she got the worst fever her town had ever seen, she was sure her mother had come to her rescue to cool her down and give her such a swift and miraculous recovery. When she cried for nights on end about the meanest girl in town's torment, she found that soon enough, Claire Brewster got her just desserts.

So she liked to think her mother was always there in spirit, even when Lord Bell sent a request for her hand in marriage, and she was hopeful her mama would be looking out for her from wherever now. That's just what she told herself as Ginger ushered her to the door as the organ music played _The Bridal March_. That's what she repeated internally as she started her tentative gait down to where her husband stood. That's just what she prayed as she stood to face him, recognizing no one around her with the exception of the three servants she had met the day before.

As she was face to face with Lord Bell, the timid girl gave a soft greeting, so as not to appear rude but as she gave her gentle _"How are you?"_ he was quick to skip the small talk and give her an awfully slobbery kiss on her trembling hand.

She tried to mask the fear and look of disdain as he kissed her but there was only so much she could do. After all, he didn't seem to follow an exact set of rules as he went along talking, running his withered, terrible hand along her pale forearm. She watched his unnaturally reptilian-like eye give her a wink before he spoke, that awful, warbled voice ringing in her ears.

At his lewd comment, even the powder and crimson cheek stains couldn't hide her burning face. Who would say that to a lady? Yet, she smiled politely and let the ceremony commence.

She always had her mama in her corner.

This didn't have to last too long. Maybe he would get bored with her soon and leave her to her own devices, to chat with the staff and get to know them. Of course, for all her wishes of a fast ceremony, this one ran very slow. Part of the ceremony, she was even sure her husband was asleep by the way the priest droned on.

At long last came their "I-do's" to which Lydia solemnly agreed, her caramel eyes never leaving the ground as she stared at his lustered black shoes and her own red boots, waiting to hear his own in that awfully froggy throat.

* * *

Oh, she was a _good_ girl. He thought for sure the old codger would at least get a slap in the face for that one but Lydia was nothing but dutiful in her lace and fineries. The sweet scent of her called to his darker nature, the side of him that laid silent claim to her many years prior. Meek and obedient, she said her right words at the proper time, and even presented her soft little hand to wear his ring when she was told to.

It was an ornate piece, a cluster of opal fragments fanning out from a blinding moonstone in the center set in white gold, little diamonds weaving an intricate pattern around the band. It had cost Lord Bell hundreds of thousands to commission, and Betelgeuse was pleased with the glimmer once he finally saw it on her hand.

This was it. The culmination of all his work.

No longer would he be bound by his name and cursed to an empty eternity walking the earth in his spirit stuff. Now, he would be _solid_ , not quite a breathing man, but who would want to be when taking into consideration all the power he had amassed in his great many years walking this half-life?

It seemed to Betelgeuse that he _could_ have his cake and eat it too.

Freedom, true freedom, though quite an appealing and juicy perk in all of this, was not the goal. It was just a fun side-effect. Lydia was _his_. That's simply the way it was because he said so. If a kinder man than Thomas Baker had come along with a dowry, this all would have gone down exactly the same way.

She seemed smart enough to be aware of her place and he was pleased for it, wearing her ring without complaint and accepting him as her husband when asked. Irrationally and of his own doing, he became wildly jealous that she did, hateful for a moment that she would give herself so callously to this old fuck‒ until reality and logic made a return.

_"... and do you, Lord Magnus Bell, take this woman to be your wedded wife?"_

The ceremony was a simple one. He had requested a script without any of the bullshit flowery exposition. It didn't suit them, and he was ready to just fucking meet her already. _Really_ meet her.

"Don't mind if I do…" He chuckled, his own voice winning out over Lord Bell's finally, his acceptance of his bride coming out in a purely masculine baritone drawl. It was the voice of a much younger man‒ but not a young man, mind you. Younger.

_"You may now kiss the bride."_

A savage grin cracked across that withered face. With a strength the old geezer didn't possess, one of his reedy arms reached out faster than lightning to snatch the girl around her cinched waist and pull her the rest of the way to him, until those plush, mouth-watering pale powder-covered tits were pushed up against his robes. His face darted forward. The girl flinched hard. Betelgeuse frowned.

"Oh, yeah… Forgot about _that…_ hold on a sec..."

He put minimal space between them again. Everyone in the room, Ginger, Vincent, Jacques, the priest, were all aghast at Lord Bell's behavior thus far and had been biting their tongues on saying anything to disrespect their wealthy employer. However, screams could not be contained at what happened next.

The Lord's milky blue eyes began to glow that sickly electric green, his face distorting in horror. _"I'm… sorry…"_ The old man croaked before his soul left the Earth and Betelgeuse abandoned his body. The husk fell lifeless and cold to the ground. Lord Bell had died many days ago, but Betelgeuse had been forcing his soul to stick around and provide a tethering point for possession of the very important corpse.

In Lord Bell's place stood a being the likes of which none of them had ever seen. It was a man, a man just as dead if not more so than the used up shell on the ground, the one his boot was victoriously planted on. His hair was wild platinum blonde, matted and tinged green like it had been soaked in pond scum before being sun-dried on the hottest day of the year. Impossibly dark shadows framed a pair of sunken emerald eyes, currently gleaming smug and proud at his handiwork that evening.

Stranger more was his state of dress. He looked like a vagabond. _A ruffian_. Someone who could hardly afford their next drink, so much as a _wife_. Tattered dark pants were tucked into muddy boots. His shirt, a dingy gaudy black-and-white striped thing, was _untucked_ , an ill-fitted maroon coat with stains and singes on the material topping the look off. The coat looked like it had been taken off of another dead wealthy person like Lord Magnus. Right from their grave, in fact.

The specter charged forward again, grabbing his bride up in much the same manner and not paying a lick of attention to their panicked guests.

"C'mon, Lyds," he purred the familiar nickname as if he had any right, looking right into her soul as he did so. He _knew_ her. "Ya didn't really think I was gonna let that sonuvabitch _kiss_ you, huh?"

His tone was jovial. Light-hearted. Like it was all just a silly, fun prank. With that, he was on her, finally claiming his bride's lips as was his right.

* * *

As the elaborate ring slipped onto her small finger, it took all her willpower not to eye it with a look of cupidity. It was gorgeous, the delicate stones placed so thoughtfully throughout the weavings of the little white golden band, the dazzling moonstone that sat perfectly placed in the center… it was all too much. She couldn't possibly be worthy of such fine things, especially not when she was easily nowhere near his status.

She listened to him say his I-do, finding his voice to be different. As if more power was pushed into his lungs and he could speak with as much gusto as he pleased. It was particularly off-putting; from what the servants had told her, Lord Bell was a mild-mannered gentleman who only cared for a few grand things in life. Judging from the way he sent her _the finest_ things the night prior, and how grand the whole wedding set up was, not to mention his own behavior towards her, she wasn't sure if she could really trust those words.

Unfortunately, Lydia wasn't granted much time for her own musings as the priest soon gave them permission to seal this arrangement with a kiss. While she expected a light peck onto her blood-red lips, the way he yanked her close with an unruly amount of strength told her that this would be anything but an ordinary kiss. Incidentally, just as she was pressed up against his robes‒ her bodice covering barely anything, modesty thrown out the window‒ she flinched.

It was unintentional, of course, but it happened. That's when he frowned as if to confused why his aggressive nature in sweeping her off her feet had caused such a reaction‒ but he spoke, not in an incredulous tone, rather as if he had forgotten a nightcap before bed.

No one could have prepared for what came next.

He let her go as his eyes glowed a deep green, his voice once again changing, sounding weak, defenseless. The only word he uttered was an apology, before he dropped to the ground, a heap of a human as if all the bones had left his body. The one thing she couldn't shake was the look of horror engraved on the innocent man's face.

That's when the screams started. Ginger's was the first to pierce her ears. She wasn't sure what she had heard before… it was all quiet. But now, screams rang out all through the mansion as she stayed quiet, unsure of how to go about this. She was afraid, yes. After all, someone dying on your wedding day is of course bad luck. However, she also wasn't sure where she stood in the chaos.

When she looked up, she too wanted to scream. A dead man stood in front of her, smug and proud. His sunken eyes observed his doing of the evening and then grazed over her bosom, chuckling slightly at the mess of it all. She supposed by some means, it was better than marrying a man who seemed unaware of her existence but she didn't know what was to become of them amidst the panic.

She was caught off guard when he pulled her close again, making her yelp in surprise, but with his smooth voice which purred to her softly as if this was some joke she missed out on, she did feel a bit calmer. Yet before she could fully find a reason to uncomfortably laugh it off, his mossy lips were harshly pressed into hers.

The kiss was _vile_. Beyond disgusting as he slipped his grotesque tongue between her parted lips but as she tried to jerk back, she found he held her in place with much ease. Worry furrowed in her dark brows as she fell into the kiss involuntarily before he finally let her go with some sound of content.

"I-I'm sorry sir… do I know you?"

She hoped that if she was polite there would be some explanation as to who this ghastly figure was, and why he was here. Was this her mother's way of rescuing her? Did she hear her wishes? The girl couldn't help the small smile that came to her lips as the thought crossed her mind.

Of course, that smile was quick to fade as she turned and saw how panicked the poor servants were. Even Vincent, who she thought had no expression other than morose, was now fear-stricken, seeming lost of what to do now that his master had died. She wanted to help them, to comfort who she could, to assure them that it would be okay, but she was young. Hell, she didn't even know if it _would_ be okay but with one look at the man who was once Lord Bell, she was sure nothing would ever be the same from here on out.

With a deep breath, she decided her best bet would be to run. She didn't know where to, or even if she would escape the pandemonium, but she went for it. Gathering her myriad of skirts, she raced down the aisle, looking for a familiar face to give her some guidance and possibly run away with her. That's when she saw Ginger. Frantic and shrieking, the blonde clearly wanted to get out as quickly as Lydia did. She ran to greet the only friend she had by putting a hand on her shoulder.

"Ginge-" Just as she tried to get a hold of the lady in waiting, she found her hand phasing right through the woman. She paused. A look of shock graced both women's features as she tried again to the same results.

_I must be going crazy._

Judging from the look of her friend, she wasn't. Whatever was happening, she clearly wasn't alone in her troubles, as Ginger immediately read her thoughts, ushering Lydia to her personal room, up the winding, old back staircase through the servant's quarters. Away from the worst of it, Lydia exhaled a breath.

Only thereafter did she discover Ginger wasn't with her anymore. Opening the door a smidge, she saw only barren corridors. Was it safe to go back down? She was scared to see what had become of the wedding hall, and where her husband's body lay now.

Maybe it was a bad dream, maybe she would go back to bed and everything would be different. Silently, she got up from against the door, slipping out of those lace-up boots, her stocking clad feet touching the cool floor, which in turn made her shiver. A fire. Maybe starting a fire would help.

She got the wood and sparked some embers after a few failed attempts, before taking a breath and undoing her pinched, tied up hair. The curls fell down her back and she decided that for now, she was far too tired to take off all the garments she had on. She settled into bed, once more praying that this was all just a nightmare.

* * *

Chaos erupted once he got his kiss, like he knew it would. Just like freedom, chaos was not the goal here but it sure was a whole lot of fun witnessing the fruits of his labor unfold.

The entire day leading up to now had been a _riot_. Watching his chosen bride interact with all these amnesiac stiffs like they were one in the same, peas in a pod‒ it only solidified that she was the one for him. Whatever it was that compelled him to see to her wellbeing all those years ago knew _exactly_ what it was doing.

Lord Bell, being as ancient as he was, preferred to keep a spritely, young staff‒ healthy people without any reason for concern that their souls might slip away from their bodies in the night. With no reason to believe they were dead, they awoke and carried about their business the day of the wedding as usual, ignorant to that the previous night while they snored comfortable and safe in their beds, each of them swallowed a lethal dose of belladonna in their sleep, the dropper given by their Master.

Or rather, the spirit that had taken possession of him. After all, his bride deserved servants. He couldn't have them running off and causing a scene after the big reveal when he took his rightful wife. They had jobs to do, and it was so hard finding good help these days. It pleased him that he made the correct choice in deciding to keep them, placated by their treatment of Lydia in the few interactions he had seen. They would take care of her once they got over their own bullshit.

Even now, the leggy blonde maid was shelving her own shock at that she no longer had a proper physical form in order to protect Lydia from a perceived threat. _Excellent_. Exactly what he wanted. They would all be getting raises from him had they any use for money. The thought made him cackle where he stood amongst the wreckages of the wedding.

Vincent and Jacques had fled‒ stupidly. It would be hours before they managed a return from Saturn and the sandworm pit. The priest attempted to make a run for it, but Betelgeuse didn't want any nasty rumors flying around town about his precious wife and so with a dismissive flick of the wrist snapped the holy man's neck and banished his soul to Saturn all in one fell swoop. Yet another strike against "God", another victory, another selfish act of cruelty to feed the apparition's overblown superiority complex.

Only the maid, the bride, and the groom remained within the manor's walls. The hunt was on.

He found Ginger first. She was in the kitchen, hiding under the table, holding herself, and muttering nonsensical things. Every other moment, she would lose control and phase through the floor just an inch or so, making her cry out and flail in disorientation like a scared infant. _Yuck_. Newlydeads were so gross and emotional. He could have interrogated the woman, traumatized her some more for his wife's hiding place, but that seemed like more work than it was worth.

"Hey," he spared a moment to address her far too casually, crouching down to level a deadpan under the table. "Whenever yer done with uh…" He gestured crassly at her shocked, distraught form. " _That._ Need ya to get to work haulin' the bodies out back ta th'garden fer fertilizer 'fore they start stinkin'."

It was time they all started getting used to who the _real_ Master around here was. Moving on, he checked all the extra rooms first; nooks and crannies, the pantry, strange closets and under staircases. When that didn't yield results, it became clear that Lydia was shit at playing hide and seek and he needed to look somewhere more obvious. Her own chambers were empty, but when he checked the maid's, he struck gold.

Not only was she there, she wasn't hiding or crying or acting like she at all feared for her life or safety. No, instead she had gotten _comfortable_. Her hair was down, shoes off, her diminutive form lying prone and softly awake on the bed‒ not necessarily trying to sleep, just relaxing. He was drawn to her, the way he always was.

Concentrated smoke began to pour from the fireplace as the flames cooled and turned green. It furled out into the room in a near-solid mass, curling across the floor, up the edge of the bed, and enveloping her body until it solidified to form a man‒ her husband. Just as before, he had nothing but hunger and appreciation in his intense gaze as it burned down, eating up every perfect little detail of _her_. A gritty claw came to caress a tuft of soft sable baby hair curling in front of her ear.

There was tense silence for a while as she mirrored his actions in a different light, taking him in just as he took in her. He allowed the silence to carry, curious to see how she might break it, but when it became clear he had stolen her tongue with his mere existence, he took the honor.

" _Do_ you know me… Ly-di-a?"

He parroted the sweet question she had uttered after he took her lips, the one he wasn't given time to answer.

"I'd sure like it if ya did…"

A soft chuckle escaped at the look on her face. A wave of affection came over him, compelled him to drop his lips to her forehead in an uncharacteristically gentle brush. A large, calloused hand rested on the side of her throat, claws pleasantly scratching into her hairline. His knee pressed between her legs even through the volumes of her skirts, keeping them separated.

"... but it wouldn't change nothin'. Not fer me. _Yer mine."_

Suddenly fierce, he grasped her petite chin to force her to meet him face on, the tips of their noses touching, eye contact unbreakable.

"Understand?"

* * *

At some point in the few hours she was hiding there, she got comfortable as if the whole day was some odd fever dream that could be forgotten in no time. She found herself getting more and more sleepy as the evening went on, unaware of the racket that was going on downstairs. Resting on the bed, that ebony hair draped over her and the pillow like nests of spiders, scurrying every which way whenever she shifted. Though hunger occasionally plagued her, she was fine with the idea of sleeping without satisfying, for small fear of what she might find if she ventured out.

However, it wasn't she who had to do the venturing.

It all sounded far away to her; the door creaking open, the heavy footsteps, similar to the ones she heard the night prior. But she barely flinched. Being so relaxed, she simply yawned and watched the embers until at long last, they turned a soft green. Smoke began to lick the edge of the bed, soon draping over her as if she was to be buried in this thick cloud.

It wasn't until she sat up a bit to cough that she realized she was not alone.

The temperature had dropped a few degrees, making her shudder. It took her a moment to let her eyes adjust to the new smoke lain room before she felt a cool, sharp extremity brush a curl behind her ear. It was then that she jumped, wondering who could possibly be venturous enough to touch her with little to no caution. That wasn't to say the touch wasn't gentle. It was, but it was equally as spine-tingling.

The young maiden looked up and saw him; a figure who was easily a head or two taller than her looming close by only to settle on the bed.

Every bit of him was observed as if it was her first time laying eyes on him‒ despite the brief and mildly upsetting meeting they had earlier. His matted light blond hair had knots and tangles off moss in it, yellowed teeth holding a shady smile. The deep purple and blue circles around his eyes alluded to that whatever he was… he clearly was not human.

He spoke first. She was grateful to finally hear something from him, she mused, even if it was a mockery of what she had uttered earlier in a state of shock. Confusion came over her usually reticent expression as he continued to speak. Was she _supposed_ to know him? She was certain she had never seen anyone like this in her life.

However, he didn't seem as threatening now as he pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, hand entangling in her thick waves of raven hair as she exhaled softly. She felt his knee press between her legs, making her face flush at such a bold and somewhat crude gesture. As quickly as she relaxed, she was surprised again as he forced her chin up to look at him, malevolent green eyes staring with such great intensity. Nose to nose, she was nearly afraid to even draw in a breath.

"I understand, sir."

He looked pleased with her response, happy that she didn't protest in any way. _How could she?_ This stranger had completely thrown the planned wedding out the window, and there didn't seem to be much of a limit as to what he could and could not do, at least not any that she knew of.

Part of her felt silly, thinking that her life would be anything close to normal. Currently, she stared into the face of what she imagined to be death, and here he was arrogant as a king. Granted, she didn't blame him. He single-handedly got rid of Lord Bell, and now stood in his place on their supposed wedding night.

* * *

_Sir_. That was nice. That was a moniker he could get used to. It sounded so much better than "asshole" and "bastard".

It pleased him greatly to see her acceptance of her position. A part of him feared he would be forced to distress her further if she chose wrong, if she fought him, but no. Lydia knew her place. She was _perfect._

"Good girl," he purred in a tone much gentler than any of his previous manners of speaking to her. She was wide-eyed and fearful beneath him, trembling like a newborn kitten. He could just _imagine_ the thoughts running through her pretty little head. It usually displeased him to see her distraught or upset in any fashion but the knowledge that she was _safe, finally, forever and for good_ ‒ had him in such a state of relief that he was only mildly amused at her fretting, the way one might regard a small child who cried because the sun had set and they feared it would never return.

"Don't be scared," he comforted but wasn't really pressed one way or the other if his reassurance had any effect. "Ain't gonna let nothin' bad happen to ya. _Never_ … Couldn't. I'd throw myself to the sandworms first. I _love_ you."

The more he pet her, savoring the deliciously _solid_ and _tangible_ sensation of ebony silk on his rough, ugly hand, the faster the confessions spilled out‒ sappy, soft-hearted shit that had built up in his head unspoken for so long that now that he had an opportunity to speak and be heard, they demanded out.

"Gonna make you so fuckin' happy, Lyds," he kissed one cheek now, then the other. "Yer gonna have _everything_. Jewels, dresses, carriages. Gonna take you _everywhere_. Ya ever seen the ocean? Course ya haven't. Yer gonna."

While he babbled, his thigh pressed firmer between her legs and pecking kisses traveled down her jaw and throat. He paused speaking briefly to let his tongue draw a wet line along her collarbone, groaning in her ear afterward at the heat, the flavor of life.

"I know ya got questions, honey, I know…"

Her lips were shut tight, but he could see the gears turning in her head, trying to figure out who and what he was, where he had come from, and what it was about her that would lead him to say and do these outrageous things. His cock throbbed in his trousers at the look, a wave of guilt and sympathy and dark lust sweeping over him at once as his ground down against her hip. Her tit was deliciously hot and soft in his palm even over the bodice as his fingers danced deftly along with the bloody lace that held her pieced together.

"I'll letcha know whatcha need t'know later."

It was not a comforting answer, but it was the only one she was getting for the time being.

"Y'know anythin' 'bout what I'm 'bout t'do t'ya?"

* * *

She couldn't peg him for the life of her. Who was he? Why did he want her? She was just some mundane girl but he decided to take her. What made it all the more confusing was his gentle cooing and praise following his threats. He was beyond perplexing, as if he were just made of a million tiny riddles, none of which correlated or she could solve. She was at his will and inevitable disposal… or so she thought. After all, there had to be a million girls who would love a man with this much power. He spoke to her as if she were just a frightened little girl, the same tone her mother had used years ago, that familiarity rubbing off on her and making her guard drop.

Then he said he _loved_ her.

How could he? He didn't even know her. The very concept of love was preposterous in a marriage like this, it had to be. But that clearly didn't stop him. As grateful as she was for his saving at the wedding, she also wasn't sure how much she could trust such a confusing fellow.

He told her everything she would have, things that she never imagined. Her mother told her stories of creatures like him… _Benga_ , if she recalled correctly. Mama said they were much like the devil that the people of their town feared; atrocious monsters of trickery and lust. He had to be one. What other divine spirits would cause this much discord? Oftentimes, benga like him would have reptilian attributes, be it eyes, or scales‒ her wood-colored gaze scanned for any such extremities as he promised her riches and finer things. She was _sure_ he was some terribly misguided spirit who chose at random to mess with her on her wedding day.

That was it. She couldn't be tempted. She had to stay smart.

But as he pressed his knee harder against her skirts, she found him becoming hard to resist. After all, girls always waited until their wedding night to feel what they described as "immeasurable pleasure". Everyone always said such nasty things about women who didn't keep their purity until after marriage‒ and she vowed to never be one. Now she had the chance, all the curiosity that had built inside her since her sexual maturity was ready to burst.

As these thoughts became apparent, he trailed a cool tongue along her collar bone, making her shudder in response. He was cold, and now she felt far too hot, yearning for that icy sensation again as he let a deep, throaty growl escape gray lips. When she opened her mouth to speak, to try and tell him she wouldn't fall for his seduction, he spoke again.

Of course, she had questions. Too many to count. She couldn't even begin to comprehend all that happened, or whether or not she was safe at this moment. But she let him take the lead. That chilled hand latched onto her breast, making her all the more grateful that the embers that illuminated her rosy red face were almost gone.

What was he going to do? When he asked her his last impatient question she shook her head 'no' and waited to see if he would explain. But he didn't bother. Instead, that raspy chuckle came out again as he took her soft lips in another chaste kiss, his own mannerisms seeming to come darker at confirmation of her innocence. She struggled against it slightly, fearing the worst; the unknown. She broke their lips, her own swollen and buzzing, unknowingly craving more of what she denied.

"I… I can't. I don't even know you! This can't happen!"

She argued despite the knowledge that at this age many girls sold their bodies to men they didn't know at all. The small, pale hand curled into a delicate push back on his chest was shaking. The way he leered told her she shouldn't have spoken up. She couldn't run… could she? He would just find her again, she was sure of it. But in the heat of the moment, her legs ached to run away and get as far as she could from Bell manor.

* * *

"Shhh sh sh sh," he calmed when she really started to squirm, heat-seeking receptors in his vision flaring up at the heightened flush of her cheeks. If she fought harder, hit him or cried or seemed inconsolably miserable, he would have put a raincheck on this‒ but her heart wasn't in it. She was just doing what she thought she needed to do to be a good girl and he praised her for it.

"I know, honey, I know, you're such a good girl..." he cooed in that sweet voice he barely recognized, keeping up his massaging of her luscious little tit despite her meager struggle. "It's _scary_."

Drunk on her scent, he nuzzled and growled the last word into her throat, using a babying tone like a parent would with a child concerned about the monster under their bed. As if finally realizing where they were, he broke off to level a distasteful stare around the room before clutching her more closely to him. This wasn't the place he had prepared for her. That wouldn't do.

A snap of his fingers had the world displacing around them. The bed beneath them turned softer, the weight of them sinking deeper into a plush surface. The fire in Lydia's chambers burst to life upon their materialization on her bed, still glowing green from his influence. Both of her breakable wrists were caught by animated strips of silk fabric slinking out from the posters of the bedframe. Gentle but insistent, they wound around her limbs and pulled her arms up secure until she was effectively bound, only her legs left free.

"There we go," he sighed in relief, sitting up a moment to take her in; groomed and primped and polished to perfection, wrapped up in a bow just for him. He could do _anything_. It was his divine right, both by laws of the living and the dead. The thought made him salivate, dark scenarios flashing through his mind until he came to his senses and remembered her fear.

This had to be handled delicately. If he was too cruel to her, she would hate him forever… but he _needed_ her. He couldn't bear to go another day not knowing what it was like to be inside her‒ _her_ , Lydia, an angel on Earth and _his wife_. Finally.

It took leagues of patience and concentration that he did not have to keep from ripping the lace from her shivering form and just taking what he wanted. Instead, he let himself settle laying gently over her, propped up on one elbow. The hand molesting her chest switched sides, squeezing and kneading at the other until he could feel its peak hardening beneath the fabric just like its twin.

"See?" He cajoled after a few more moments like this, allowing her to come to terms with what was happening. "S'not so bad. I know what I'm doin', baby doll…"

The laces running down her bodice had been completely undone. The fabric parted to reveal a sheer chemise beneath, flimsy enough for a single claw of his to _riiiiiiipp_ right down the middle without expelling much effort at all.

"I know ya know _somethin'_... men don't wanna hear it, but women talk."

Betelgeuse himself had overheard many a poor wife describe the woes of enduring a fuck with her husband. Most of the women the ghoul had taken to his bed had never even cum before until he got his hands on them.

"You think I'm gonna hurt you…"

Still forcing a calm disposition, he brushed layers of ruined silk and gossamer out of the way until luminous breasts and a flat, too-skinny tummy was revealed. She wasn't sickeningly thin, but he would definitely make sure Jacques added lots of sugary, buttery foods to her diet. A light as a feather touch, different from his bold massage over the fabric, traced over the soft curve of each tit, circling each nipple with a rough fingertip. His eyes stayed locked on her face the whole time, devouring each change in her expression.

"Yer right. M'gonna."

She tensed. He grinned again, amused despite himself.

"What ya _don't_ know…" he leaned in, nipped one of the sensitive rockhard little pink tips with his teeth, then lathed the area with an icy tongue to soothe away the little bite of pain.

"... is that yer gonna _like_ it."


	3. Chapter 3

When he held her closer in a tight yet calming clutch, she started to relax despite herself through deep breathing. After a few moments of his gruff cooing, she felt his hand go back to massaging her breast, the chill seeping through any layers of fabric, no matter how thick. She gasped and writhed at the sensation of his cool lips pressed against her neck, unsure of how she truly felt about the feelings developing. Of course, just as she adjusted, he moved, considering the room around them with an expression of near-disgust. She frowned in confusion, wondering if it was something about her that made his brow furrow to such an extreme. Yet before the young woman could say a thing, he transported them to her room, everything decadent and in its place.

All except her hands. The girl struggled and shifted in an attempt to get comfortable, unintentionally puffing her chest out in the process, giving him more than a fair look. But seeing as there was no escape, she eventually settled.

As he started to coo and explain everything to her, Lydia nodded in understanding, _wanting_ to be good for him, wanting to behave. He seemed so safe at this moment, teaching her what every lady should know and be able to perform on their wedding nights.

Part of her wished she had a mother to teach her, to tell her what to do when the time came for her to be with a man. Yet here she was now, with someone who had the body of a man and the mind of a serpent, and she could hardly keep up.

With further offense, he tore soft detailed fabric and accused women of speaking lustful things. She blushed as if such a broad accusation should be burdened onto her frail shoulders. Of course, neither could she deny it. Maidens gossiped as well as the married women on the street. It was only natural that she heard a few things but when he brought it to light, shame bubbled up in her. He was right. Men didn't like it when women spoke of these things.

She didn't have much time to think about it before he shifted, in turn making her flinch. Instead of getting impatient, he simply kept his calm tone, continuing to murmur soft and low. He was right. She _did_ think he was going to hurt her. Hell, she was sure of it. After the fiasco earlier in the day, who could blame her?

Yet now his touches were so gentle, discarding the now-torn fabric away from her chest so he could get a clear view of what she had. Her breath hitched in near anticipation before he pointed his attention towards her breasts, a chilled, calloused grey thumb rubbing the light pink buds. She gasped at the sensation‒ arousal building steadily. He grinned, clearly pleased with his work.

Then he paused, saying words that forced her to compose herself before she could understand.

At that moment it clicked. She tensed, looking up at him, those big brown eyes full of pleading and wanton. What did he plan on doing to her? She felt as if she belonged on a sacrificial table the way he tied her up and looked at her with such hungry green eyes. No one _ever_ warned her about this. The way she squirmed and squealed as he nipped at her tits before the cool slathering of his tongue soothed them. No one warned her that she would, in fact, like all that he did, how the warmth between her thighs begged for him even while her mind whined a weak _no_.

He was a risk, to say the least. She didn't even know his name and here she was bedding him.

That had to change.

"Excuse me, Sir, pardon," she looked at him as she sat in the compromising position, his own gaze as feral as ever. "I don't believe I caught your name. What should I call you?" She inquired genuinely, hoping to learn who this mysterious and dangerous man was, or if he truly was the devil as she suspected.

* * *

"Ooh-ho-ho," he chuckled at the bold question from his trussed and tied bride, his half-grin caught somewhere between amusement and something undeniably malicious, "we on a first name basis already, minette?"

It was awful of him to joke around like that with her naked breast sweet and soft in his grubby mitt, but he couldn't help himself. He didn't like to be reminded of his shortcomings. Though the curse on his name was lifted with his marriage to the seer, it still didn't belong to him anymore. No, his name was hers now. If he let her know what it was, that would make it that much easier for her to do something stupid like using it against him.

He didn't like it but giving Lydia his name was far, far better than allowing it to remain in the public domain. She could at the very least be controlled.

"I think Sir'll do jus' fine fer now."

Bracing his weight on her chest, he pushed up off of her until he was kneeling upright, taking her all in. He had been careful not to leave any marks on her yet. Aside from a fluffed exasperation to her hair and the ruined gown, she was perfection, all in one piece. He savored it while it lasted, tracing claws from her high cheekbones down, down, down‒ over her collarbone and breasts, rib cage and navel, right up to where the skirts got thick and heavy and his claws wouldn't do it anymore.

That's when the knife came out. Green fire reflected off its nasty, jagged blade and he caught when she saw it exactly, stomach-curdling panic lighting up her beautiful eyes. In an instant, he was back on her, the knife dropped, shushing and kissing her brow and forehead.

"Shhhhh…. Sh sh sh sh sh… ya think I'd cut up them perfect lil' titties? _Fuck no_ , baby… Gotta get you outta this thing so we can have some _fun_ …"

His lips found hers again for the first time since their wedding. This time, he didn't let her escape‒ not that there was anywhere to go. Remaining a solid, heavyweight on top of her, he plied her mouth gently until she opened for him at which point he grew hungrier, more passionate. His hands cupped at the side of her head and her hair, his hips rocked down into her. Eventually, he tore away with an impatient growl, grabbed the knife back up, and made short work of destroying the wedding dress before she could have an opportunity to be afraid of his big, scary knife again. He had bigger tools for her to fear.

Sure, he could have just made her clothing disappear with a blink but there was no drama in that, no theatrics. He and Lydia had the rest of eternity together for wham-bam-thank-ya-ma'am quickie fun. Tonight was their _wedding night_ and he could do better for them both than that.

Without nicking perfect alabaster flesh, he drew the knife down through her multitude of skirts, and then once down each arm until all the cut and ripped up pieces of white and crimson gossamer and silk and linen made a soft cushion for her nude form‒ all except the sheer white stockings pinned to her creamy thighs by a pale blue garter. That little flash of blue did something for him deep inside, a proud and masculine piece of him purring with contentment.

Hardly able to help himself, he hovered down closer to her lower half, briefly appreciating the beautiful thatch of raven curls between her edible thighs before moving lower to the garter. His thumbs hooked around its elastic band, circled the circumference of her thighs, then pulled back to let it _snap_ and make her jump just a little. Swiftly, he moved, leaving a quick and harsh suckling bite on her thigh above the garter.

"Oh, that's _pretty_ ," he admired as the spit-covered skin began to swell and discolor, leaving a perfect bite mark in the shape of his mouth. He burned the image into his head before moving back to the original place of interest‒ the hot little slice of heaven just a few inches north. Without further ado, he had a thigh on each shoulder and her lower lips spread, _everything_ on display to him. He was vaguely aware of her squirming and saying something, but the words were a vague itch against his eardrum in the face of all that pink, slick secret flesh.

With a tiny little moan that made him sound weak, he licked her clit once, just tonguing it a bit. Then, he came back for more, and more, and _more_ , hungrier each time; a starving wild animal that had found something new and delicious to add to its diet.

* * *

At his laughter, and pet name, she blushed, feeling somewhat foolish as if she was the only one not part of the joke. Just as she opened her mouth to try and defend herself, he continued. Why was he so opposed to her knowing his name? Something was suspicious about that… not that she had much time to think about it, as he gave her another option without another thought.

She nodded and simply obliged. After all, what could she do? _Demand his name?_ The thought was laughable, especially as she laid there, tied up, his hand palming her now hard nipples. To say the least, she wasn't in any state to argue or protest in any way, and it seemed she didn't have much of a chance to as he pushed all his weight off of her, looming over with a appreciative gaze.

That was all well and fine until she saw the knife. Her eyes widened in terror as she tried to squirm away with a soft shriek. The knife glinted in the jade light, looking jagged and sharp‒ something she decidedly did _not_ want to be around. But he was quick to comfort her, practically throwing the knife aside as he pushed himself back on top of her, shushing and cooing once again as if she were nothing more than a frightened child. He explained it all, which did make her feel slightly calmer, at least she knew he wasn't going to _kill her_.

As he pried at her mouth, she opened obediently, and let him devour her soon-to-be swollen lips. He undulated his hips into her own, the two of them nearly moving in sync, it was almost dreamlike. That is until he let out a growl of impatience and grabbed the knife, cutting away the remaining beautiful fabric before she could protest.

It took all her willpower not to cry out when he sliced the knife down each arm, only cutting more of the silk she wore. But now she sat there, with only the baby blue garter and her pristine white stockings hooked together nicely. She hoped he wouldn't completely ruin this at least. Even if it was somewhat materialistic, she did find herself trying to hold on to what she could. After all, who could blame her? She wasn't a beggar, but she knew how valuable these things were.

His cool hands moved along her thighs, before letting the elastic band which connected the garter to her stockings _snap_. She jumped, and yelped, those big, lashy brown eyes becoming wide with alertness. Before she could actually intervene, he bit her inner thigh, making her grimace and writhe as she gasped at the sensation. It was all moving so fast. She could barely grasp it all as he continued to move, his breath cool against her womanhood.

She felt large mitts grab on harshly to her thighs, hard enough she was sure there were going to be bruises left. She couldn't move or run away now, she was stuck here, to be his bride, cursed and adorned in this unrequited love.

"Sir.. could you uhm‒ slow down a little bit? I-I'm sorry to bother but‒ ah~!" His tongue swiped down her core, making her hips jerk into his mouth involuntarily.

* * *

He could hear her gentle requests buzzing at his ear but all they did was make him groan into her pussy and devour with more fervor. How could she be so _polite_ right now? It was killing him.

The length of his tongue speared past her nether lips to lick and prod and play with the thin membrane of flesh that made up her maidenhead, careful not to puncture it. Neither his tongue nor fingers would be taking care of _that_ job. It would have been better for her in the end if he did but he was a selfish man at his core. Deflowering his virgin bride on his cock was a luxury not gifted to him when there was still breath in his lungs, so he would take his due now.

It was worth it. He would make it better for her when the time came. He was making it better for her _now_ , big hands massaging all along her silhouette and up to her pretty, perfect little titties all the while his mouth sealed completely over the seat of her pleasure, sucking up all she had to give and demanding _more_.

Her climax came and it was _beautiful_. Glowing yellow orbs stayed trained on her lovely face as she fell into fits, claws holding her pinned to the bed as he slurped it all up in a vulgar, noisy way, then licked his lips as he crawled up her body, taking in her post-orgasmic bliss. Her chest heaved up and down with panting breaths, pearlescent flesh misted over with sweet-smelling‒ to him anyway‒ perspiration.

"Tha's a good girl," he praised, delicately tucking stray hairs back from her sticky forehead and cheeks. "See? Told ya you'd like it."

He was all smug pride and victory at that moment, eating up every minute detail of his pleasured wife's disheveled countenance. He wanted more. He wanted to latch on to that slick, delicious slice of cherry pie until she came so hard she begged for mercy into unconsciousness…

But that was cruel. He had time for his games. This, now, was for _her_.

"Now… y' _know_ yer not goin' anywhere," he reminded, tracing a claw down her bound arm until it reached sensitive flesh near her pit, causing her to squirm and giggle against her will. He smirked affectionately, unable to keep from planting a quick kiss to her cheek before continuing.

"Y'know yer my wife. Y'know I'm yer husband. Ya were already ready t'do this with th'old dead fuck downstairs, n' I know you'd rather get it on with me than _that guy_." He was saying a lot. His face twisted at the mere prospect of Lord Bell actually having gotten his hands on her, not that the old man had much going on upstairs to realize what was happening to him in his last days.

"Can I take these off…?" He tugged at her bindings, leveling a hard look down at her. "Or ya gonna try somethin' stupid if I do that?"

* * *

Lydia struggled and squirmed with his every swipe at her womanhood with his chilled tongue. She couldn't contain the moans and gasps that escaped plush lips as he pursued whatever he seemed to be after between her legs.

Before she had all that long to think about it, he was yet again quick to melt any guard she even thought of putting up. His tongue prodded between her nether lips, enough to edge her on all the more. His large hands grabbed and groped any surface of her they could find, occasionally going to play with her breasts as he kept her seated right at his mouth, using what she deemed to be only half his power to give Lydia her first bout of true, basic human pleasure.

She was thrown into a paroxysm of lust and pleasure, all the things women were scorned for out in public. Her body convulsed as she let out a keen cry, face twisting in a deluge of pleasure. As she caught her breath, barren chest heaving up and down, beads of sweat slicking those long raven curls along her cheeks, her eyes opened. Looking right back at her were a pair of impish green ones, watching to see her reaction, to see if she even _tried_ to challenge him‒ which, of course, she had no plan to.

As the minutes passed, she could find no malintent in him. He brushed her sweat pressed hair back and looked her up and down, praising her softly. _Good. She wanted to be good for him._ She wanted more, be it greed or something akin to that but she craved his touch on her again. Ached for it, yearned for satisfaction from him.

However, he seemed to enjoy taking his time, waiting things out for a grand finale when _he_ was ready. One of his claws traced along her arm, wriggling as it got to her armpit, causing a soft, breathless giggle to escape swollen lips before he gave her a gentle peck on her flushed cheek, an endearing smirk never wavering.

But then he continued, making it very clear she wouldn't be escaping anytime soon. The way he grimaced at the idea of her bedding Lord Bell gave her a sense of flattery in some twisted way. This man whom she barely knew was looking out for her. He was some unearthly, unholy being, but he cared enough to grimace at the idea of her marrying someone that wasn't him.

She tried to stifle a smile, nodding in understanding before he leveled her with an authoritative look, questioning whether or not she would make a run for it if he let her go as he tugged on the silk which, despite all her struggling, never loosened.

"I'll stay here, Sir." She responded eventually, voice hushed as those big chestnut eyes searched for some answer as she looked up.

* * *

"Huh," he huffed, the corner of his mouth ticking higher at that smile, transforming his smirk into something more genuine. A _smile_ was the last thing he thought he would see from her. All these years haunting her and now that he was seeing it, he wasn't sure he ever had before. Not like this. It only lasted a split second before she buried it but it punched him right in the gut, magic wavering, the sheets that kept her bound falling limp from their invisible tension.

"Smart girl," he praised again, one of his claws tapping her temple. He was happy to lathe her in compliments. Her life was so sorely lacking of them.

Betelgeuse found himself equal parts eager to just lay there and indulge in hours of conversation, let her talk and ask her questions and get to know him the way he _knew_ her‒ he wanted that simple comfort just as badly as the violent, paranoid beast inside of him wanted to secure her back to the bed frame and keep each of her holes stuffed and stretched until her brilliant mind was rendered useless to anything was pleasing him.

_Compromise._

With freedom, she let her arms drop down to her sides lax, not fighting as she promised, and he ran his hands up and down them, massaging away any discomfort lingering from the brief imprisonment. Behind them, the fire Ginger built to keep her warm diminished prematurely with supernatural interference. Moonlight still streamed through the open curtains, and his gaze still glowed eerily over her but now many of his more unsightly traits were hidden from view.

This was a conscious decision on his part, another concession to making this transition easier for her. He was confident in his ability to make her quake and beg for him but he wouldn't force her to look at his ugly mug and fat gut heaving over her like a dying pig while he did so. His reptilian vision was sharp enough in the dark to eat up the sight of her perfect Goddess-like form soaking in the moonlight. That's all he needed.

With a blink, he was just as nude as she. He took one of her hands, maintaining eye contact the whole time, and gently guided it between them until the delicate limb was grasping onto his thickness. The feel of her soft palm on him made a low happy sound rumble through his chest like a fat cat.

"S'my cock," he informed his innocent bride, burning further at the look on her face. He abandoned her hand to explore freely, bringing his own back to the heavenly bed of short raven fur further between her thighs. A finger stroked slow and purposeful from the bottom to the top of her slit, stopping to rub and massage her little nub when he got there.

"M'gonna put it here. Shove it _deep_ inside ya... Stretch yer lil' pussy out fer me till ya dunno which way is up n' which way is down…"

With another growl, his hips bucked into her hand, pressure on her clit increasing.

"Gonna make ya _scream_ fer me, girl… y'ready?"

* * *

Her arms relaxed. After being held up, they seemed to topple as if they had no muscle memory of grace. But his cool hands soothed the aching that came along with it all, making that guard drop all the more as he made no move to go right back to where he was. No, he was taking his time. Part of her wondered if he even had plans to continue this endeavor as he continued to lay close, simply cherishing her, a new feeling to the both of them it seemed.

That changed quickly though as the light escaped the room, engulfing them both in darkness till the moon shone brightly through the high window in the room, bathing only her it seemed in the milky white glow of light.

She couldn't see him all too well, but it didn't seem to matter to the mystery of a man. He obviously had confidence, so why he wouldn't want to show off was beyond her. But alas, he did not. She could only see the glint of those green reptilian eyes staring right back at her as his hand took her own and placed it on his extremity. She heard his purr-like sound, encouraging her to try and get some quick understanding of how to please a man.

His hands wandered after she got a good motion going, only using the limited knowledge from what she had overheard some of the more promiscuous girls and women of her town speak of as she went. She seemed to be doing something right as he rubbed between her own legs against the bundle of nerves she had there, causing her to let a quiet moan escape‒ as if for fear that someone around them would hear.

As this little game went on, he explained what he planned to do, and she had never been more grateful for the darkness‒ save for the previous night‒ as her cheeks turned a vivid ruby on her pale face but that made it all the more difficult to prove her understanding. So, she simply settled for a nod, disregarding whether or not he saw it.

Just as she got comfortable with this whole action and series of movements and understandings, he let a deep throaty growl‒ or was it more of a groan?‒ escape him as his hips jerked into her hand with the same amount of force he applied to her clit, causing her to grip the sheets with one hand and bite that soft, plush bottom lip.

Yet in this lust riddled mind maze she found herself in, she heard him ask a question, to which she immediately tried to focus on despite the love-drunk feeling she carried after such a wonderful first orgasm.

_Was she ready?_

The question haunted as she tried to think up a good answer. After all, in this moment, she _was_ ready, craving to feel full of him and indulge this feeling of neediness. However, she also realized how quick this had all moved. It seemed no matter what, she couldn't slow time for herself, not even to catch her breath.

So, in the vain of how fast everything else had moved‒ and without giving it full thought‒ she nodded once more. "Yes, Sir. I'm ready. Do your _worst._ " She uttered with a newfound confidence and little to no thought of what she had signed herself up for in this case.

* * *

A downright villainous grin cracked across his face while his gaze shone with pride. He had excellent tastes. _The best_. Yes, this was prime wife material right here.

"That's my girl."

With a grunt, he heaved himself up until he was kneeling between her legs again and grabbed hold of her thighs, hauling her the short distance to meet him across the mattress. His shadowy form was a goliath over hers, the length and thickness of his erection intimidatingly large as it wept resting heavily over her flat belly. One calloused mitt kept her creamy thigh hooked over his hip while the other took hold of himself at the base.

He smeared the tip over her just because he could, painting the flesh just below her belly button until it glistened, then readjusted to aim lower, pushing the fat head against her slick entrance. A sharp gaze met hers once more, expression dark and hungry though he tried his best to remain neutral.

"This s'gonna hurt."

She was so _good_ for him, one last warning seemed fair. Without further ado, his grip on her hip tightened and she was pulled onto him by the strength of his arms at the same time he shoved his hips forward, tearing through her maidenhead and seating himself at the hilt in a single thrust. Sure, he could have made this part less painful for her but then he would have been robbed of the way she _writhed_ now, arching bodily off the mattress while cherry lips parted to cry her agony to the moon.

_Beautiful_.

"Shhh," he comforted again with faux pity, lightly running his hands along her silhouette, petting and soothing the way he had before. The way she was clenching down on him, trying to push him out, he couldn't help but groan and pulse his hips in return, work her open with firm and shallow thrusts.

"You dunno how fuckin' _good_ you feel, kitten… _Fuuuck..._ "

His teeth bared as his speed increased, sharp and glinting in what little light fell on his gruesome form. Weren't they blunt before? Everything about her only spurred him on more; her scent, the feel of her, the confused little hurt pleasure sounds she was making, the way she would grasp at him like she was torn between pulling closer or just shoving him off. It drove him _wild_.

* * *

With each word of praise, she felt admired, more _important._ It was new, strange by any means, that she found herself preening at the hand of who she thought to be Beng, but here she was, bedding him and wishing in sin for him to absolutely ruin her.

She wished she knew a bit more about what she was doing, part of her hoped it was enjoyable for him, even if she barely knew the man. But his gaze only held pride, a wicked grin spread along his face which sent chills down her spine. She had to be doing something right then. He grabbed her hips, bringing her closer to him, his own figure towering over her petite form. She felt his length and hand rest against her stomach as a cool glistening substance was smeared along her. Her breath hitched once more however, as he looked at her with ravenous gaze, sending jolts of electricity along her body.

" _This s'gonna hurt."_

That was the only warning she got before he thrust into her, settling so deeply she wasn't even sure how it was possible. She could barely register all of the sensations as an ear-splitting shriek came from soft rosy lips. She writhed, gripping the sheets as she tried to process all of the fullness, eyes squeezing shut in a grimace as he didn't make a move to pull out of her any time soon.

But he cooed to her, being patient as he could, stroking her sides with cool, iced tip fingers. They stayed like that for a few moments, her body arched almost inhumanly off the mattress before she finally gained enough courage to open her eyes. He looked back, as if always knowing when her own would open.

Slowly, he started to thrust, making her only give shuddering moans in reply, unsure if she could take it or if this would be her own demise. It didn't hurt as much now‒ it was sore, but his encouragement and slow, shallow thrusts helped her stay afloat.

But in a second, it was as if a switch flipped on, a growl-like sound escaped his lips, as if he were some kind of feral beast, speeding up, each thrust getting deeper and faster. She caught a glimpse of his form in the sparse light, his body almost paler than she, wild hair standing up on edge as if he was startled.

She gripped his arms, trying to find something to hold onto as she wailed like a cat in heat, her own body craving more as her mind tried to fight him off. She had succumbed to this lustful power he held over her, both craving and dreading more. She wanted to beg him to slow down, to let her try to adjust more, but even her own body fought her on that. She tried to speak, gently pestering with a meek _"excuse me‒ Sir, ah‒!"_ but she couldn't even get her request out as he pounded into her.

* * *

Betelgeuse was loath to stop or slow down in any way. He hadn't been with a living woman since he was breathing himself and was losing himself in the plethora of sensation a warm body provided. Her blood sang beneath heated, flushed flesh, humming to the beat her pounding heart set. Though he had her pinned and still beneath him, she was in constant motion, chest caving and erupting with each panted breath, creamy thighs shaking in tandem with her jiggling tits as he thrust harder and faster and deeper, hunching in closer over her.

"Take it," he snarled when she babbled incompletely, no doubt another overly polite request for him to slow down or soften up. The force of his rutting was driving her up the bed and away from him, so he banded an arm around her thighs to hug her legs to his chest, keep her in place for his questing hips. Calves by his head now, he turned to suckle and bite at her ankles obscenely, a slithering tongue daring to lather other the soles of her feet and in between her toes like some sort of filthy, hungry animal.

Finally, he slowed while indulging in the indecent act, sucking her tiny pale toes into his mouth while his cock withdrew ever so slowly only to slam back home before the head could fully dislodge.

" _Fuck,"_ he grit out around her metatarsal as her clenching muscles convulsed around him, causing jade eyes to roll back into his skull. "So‒ fuckin'‒ _tight_ ‒" A weighty, savoring thrust accompanies each word. He managed to work himself back up to a quick, firm pace before growling and parting her legs abruptly, directing her to wrap them around his waist.

"C'mere."

He dragged her up with him by a thick arm wrapping around her nipped in little waist until she was impaled in his lap while he knelt on the bed.

"Arms around m'neck. Go on, girl."

Shakily, she obeyed, and then it was right back to the show. He had greater control over her now with an arm around her back and a large hand squeezing into her hip and ass cheek. When he bounced her up on his hips then brought her back down, he used his strength to really pull her into his lap, grind their bits together, use his cock to massage and stir around her sensitive insides.

"You be a good girl n' cum for me now," he demanded as if she could just flip a switch and do as she was told. Leaning back on his heels a bit to allow her greater control of motion, he used his grip on her hips to shimmy her around him impaled to the hilt, grind her clit into his groin and show her what she could do with him.

"Yer body knows what t'do," he praised, tone turning gentle to encourage her. "Jus' listen, baby…"

* * *

He sped up, and snarled, which quickly made her pipe down, taking it as more than enough warning. His hips slammed into her, making little cries escape her lips as sweat slicked her forehead, soon, he shifted though, tossing her legs over his shoulders. It was more comfortable, she deemed, despite his nipping at her ankles, which he would quickly soothe with a long, reptilian tongue that ventured father to lick the soles of her feet as well.

He seemed distracted by this, slowing down slightly enough for her to catch her breath as he sucked on her toes. Though it was only a few moments before he crammed himself right back into her with what she thought was double the force. He picked up the fast thrusting again, causing her to let a moan escape her own lips, as he muttered something that barely reached her ears‒ the cacophony of wet slapping and the bed squealing under their weight enough to drown out any words exchanged between them.

Each thrust then paused as he seemed to get his fill‒ but boy was she wrong. He did pause again, or at least slow slightly, before pulling her up by the waist, heaving her exhausted body up and spreading her legs in a way for this new position to be far more comfortable. Her big doe eyes greeted his sharp ones as he ordered her arms around him, which of course she did. Thin limbs wrapped around his neck‒ they were closer now than before as he bounced her up and down, her dark locks moving wildly with her until she was sure she would break at his hands.

He felt _so good._ Grinding her against his manhood with each downstroke, her grip tightened, nails digging ever so slightly to his back as she tried to get that sensation of sweet release. Much like before it took her a moment to hear what he had requested, but when she did, she tried in earnest to figure out how to get the climax she so desperately craved. He leaned back, holding her hips, grinding them against his own as if to teach her‒ which she quickly caught on. She listened to his words of encouragement, nodding as if to assure that she understood now.

Her hips rutted against his impalement, hands balling into tiny fists as she tried to grasp anything that could help as her arousal burned and burned, her body searching greedily for anything to help this endeavor and speed up the guaranteed satisfaction. Before she knew it, she was clinging to him for near and dear life, shuddering against him as a broken shriek-like sound escaped those plush lips. She grimaced as the pleasure became overwhelming, before collapsing into him, breathless and heaving, utterly exhausted and worn out now.

* * *

"That's it," he huffed his encouragement when she started to get the hang of it, moving around in his lap to find her pleasure without him having to do much of anything at all. Just hold her in place and keep her stuffed. Her second peak crashed over her, making his neck snap back and a chest-deep groan issue into the black darkness of the room as her tight cunt fluttered deliciously around his throbbing length.

"Good girl," he praised, cuddling her lax form close to his chest, peppering kisses across her sweaty brow as his own hips continued to rock and pulse against her. "Yer doin' so _good_. You jus' relax now, baby. Daddy's gotcha. I ain't done with you yet. Jus' one more."

He turned them while he spoke until she was under him again. Briefly, they separated, just long enough for him to flip her onto her front and tug her hips up until her back was arched and her perfect, round ass was perched and ready for the taking. Without further delay, he shoved himself right back inside, the roundness of his gut fitting sickeningly well into the curve of her back as he threw himself into fucking her with none of the same softness or gentility as before.

Assured that she was comfortable, he was single-minded in his brutality as his weight slammed into her, again and again, over and over until it happened‒ her internal muscles were gripping at him again, milking, and he couldn't hold it back any longer, releasing a guttural shout into the room as her womb was filled with an icy lathe of seed, claws digging thoughtlessly into her hips to hold her in place.

Then, after several long beats, he released her. She dropped like a deadweight to the bed and he wasn't much better off, at least having the good sense to roll off to the side so his weight wouldn't crush her. The scent of burning tobacco began to fill the air, an imported Spanish cigar that Betelgeuse hadn't had to order himself hanging from his lips. Lord Bell had some uses, it seemed.

"Wanna try?"

He waggled the cigar near her face, mindful of the cherry's proximity to her flammable mortal flesh.

"Don't gimme none o' that 'ladies don't smoke' bullshit. Ladies don't smoke 'cause their husbands're greedy bastards that don't like sharin'. That ain't me. Yer gonna do whatever th'fuck you wanna do n' nobody's gonna tell ya you can't."

Except him, of course, but his rules were minimal and easy to obey; never speak his name and never leave him. _Simple_.

"So? Wanna try?"

* * *

After all of that, he still continued, keeping her bouncing up and down slightly all the while he held her close, cuddling her close as she did for him. Mysterious entity or not, she had never felt so good, or so tired. She was sure he too would be finished shortly thereafter.

But instead, he flipped her over, promising he was almost done with her sweat-soaked, trembling body. She let herself be manhandled to the position he pleased; her back arched, hindquarters shoved up, as she was no longer relying on him for support, but only the mattress, clinging to the satin sheets and part of the torn dress instead.

He shoved back in, as she bit her bottom lip hard to keep from making what she was sure was far too much sound‒ even if the majority of the house was god knows where at this hour. But those thoughts ceased as he thrust and thrust‒ finally emptying inside of her with some sort of twisted yell into the abyss of the night. His sharpened claws dug into her sides, making her own body squirm in a combination of discomfort and pleasure. They stayed like that as if frozen in time for a few minutes.

When he pulled out, however, she was quick to collapse into the welcoming sheets that encompassed her overstimulated, warm body in a layer of comfort as he collapsed next to her, seeming to fall with a little more practiced grace. She laid on her stomach, still panting and collecting herself, only looking up when the pungent scent of tobacco hit her nose.

There he laid, regally, puffing on some expensive cigar. She was sure at some point, her father would've loved those, but such luxuries were only mere wishes among her small town and household. Any longing of home was short lived, as his voice carried through like some distant dream, until she looked up at him.

"Huh?"

He waved the burning cigar in front of her, as if tempting a dog with a bone. Was he... _encouraging her?_ It was odd, to say the least, a man offering his wife a cigar was unheard of for the most part, but here he was, offering it up as if it were nothing.

"Sure, uhm‒ thank you."

She took the cigar, observing the burning cherry, which made her all the more cautious as she took the end between her lips and inhaled before nearly choking on the smoke. With a gentle cough, as her eyes watered, she passed it back to him, putting on a grateful smile as she shifted slightly closer to him.

"Thank you for letting me try."

* * *

He let out a low, rattling string of chuckles when she expectedly choked, then thanked him for the unpleasant experience.

"You can try anythin' ya like, baby," he gave back smooth with a wink, voice teeming with sleaze and innuendo as he melted back into the silk-covered feather pillows. They had been specially made for her, like many of the new objects in the house. She shifted closer, and he took that as the cue that it was to close the distance between them and pull her sweat-misted body in close for a good snuggle. A kiss was brushed to the top of her head before he returned to puffing the cigar, an arm gesturing out to the space around them.

"Like the room? I got it set up nice jus' fer you…"

The swell of love he held for her, tainted though it may have been by his selfish, greedy heart, was sated from their intense fucking, leaving him with the constitution of a fat, purring housecat after dinner.

"Wanted more time but…" he sighed, running a gnarled finger through his matted hair and staring down at her through a lidded gaze. "Yer dad's a real sonuvabitch, Lyds."

The fuck had twisted his arm, threatened to accept Thomas Baker's dowry and send Lydia away if she wasn't retrieved promptly. Clearly, Charles was eager to finally have one less mouth to feed. Fuck him. Fuck all of them, all of the puny mortals and their petty grievances and desires‒ all except Lydia. She wasn't like any of them, he knew from watching her and keeping her safe as long as he had.

She was sweet, and quiet, and polite‒ all the things a good wife and lady should be. More than that, she was _smart_ , and curious, and creative, with a wild imagination that often took morbid turns that Betelgeuse found just delightful. These were the traits that would have gotten her beaten to death by Thomas Baker, or any other husband that wasn't him. She was so lax now, snuggled up to his side and flirting with sleep but refusing to fall fully so that she could garner what she could from him.

Poor thing must have been so _confused_. Another kiss was dropped to her forehead as he pulled her in closer.

"Need anythin'? Water? Ya hungry?"

The servants would be taking care of this kind of shit for her once they were over their own deaths but who knew how long that would take? In the meantime, he would do what husbands were meant to do. He would provide.

"Wanna sleep alone? Won't hurt my feelin's none."

* * *

His sweeping gesture made her look around once again in the dark room, the smoke from his cigar creating a hazy field across it.

"I love it. It's so grand… I've never had so much room." She replied, fending off sleep with great force. She looked up at him for a few moments, with a sobering sincerity. "Thank you, for all of this."

She had every reason to be grateful. Many men were horrible to their wives. She had heard stories; Mr. Baker was the talk of the town in those cases, yelling at his wives, _hurting them,_ so when her father brought up the idea tha she could be wed to such a man, she was far from willing. Luckily, she was here, and this enigma of a being seemed to have no interest in hurting her‒ at least none that she was aware of.

However, as much as he seemed to appreciate her, he _detested_ her father it seemed. While she did have to admit, her father was rarely a major part of her life, he was the only family she had. She had to be grateful for that at least. She was lured out of her thoughts when he spoke again, offering kindness and amenities.

"May I know your name now, Sir?"

Whatever this spirit or man was, she would figure out more tomorrow. She was too tired, and he didn't seem in any mood to prey on her as he practically purred with contentedness like an old house cat.

"If it's okay with you, it'd be nice to have some company. The bed is awfully big and I certainly won't take up all that room," she half-joked, sheepishly pleading with him, hoping he would stay

As said before, the room was spacious. It was adorned with lovely things from all around the world but just as gorgeous as it was, it was equal parts imposing; the way the moon lit only slivers, cutting through any soft and sheen look, as if it would be wiped out should the shadows pounce on her.

_Ironic_ , she thought, as she was sleeping with one who could possibly be Beng himself. But he stayed, letting her cuddle up and close her eyes.

"Thank you, sir."

She would have to figure out his name eventually, but that could wait until tomorrow.

* * *

_"May I know your name now, sir?"_

"Mmm…" He hummed around his cigar before blowing a perfect smoke ring, and turning a faux-contemplative face down to assess the cuddly pile of girl at his side. "... Nah. Yer awful cute, though."

Sleep was a useless mortal man's fancy, a needless waste of time that Betelgeuse did not ever indulge in his afterlife. Exhaustion was a non-issue. His existence consisted of an endless stream of energy; to plot, to think, to scheme, always, every second, never stopping, especially not for breath‒ just as useless as sleep.

Therefore, when his weak and ravaged mortal bride conveyed interest in his continued company while she slept, he stayed even though his eyes would never shut. He returned to his favorite past time of the past decade; Lydia watching. He had never seen her sleep so soundly and took monumental satisfaction in knowing it was he that had given her this good rest.

In life, he had not been able to provide for a wife and so never collected one, just the occasional cheap whore if he hadn't spent all of his conned earnings on drinking and games. The plan to wed Lydia was just as random and impromptu as the decision to make her his haunt. For as long as he had known her, she had always been his and if this was the only way she could continue rightly belonging to him, then so be it.

No one would be hearing any complaints from the ghoul.

Come around four o'clock in the morning, when Lydia turned away from him of her own sleeping will to snuggle soundly into a cushion, he very delicately exited the bed, pulled the comforter up around her shoulders, then reignited the fire to make sure she would remain within a cocoon of warmth in his absence.

Time to collect his wife's servants and make sure she awoke to a lovely breakfast.


End file.
